'When did you become a member of the Communist Party, Mr Addison?' Roscani leaned forward, a notepad at his sleeve.

'Communist Party?'

'Yes.'

'I am most certainly not a member of the Communist Party.'

'How long had your brother been a member?'

'I wasn't aware that he was.'

'You are denying he was a Communist.'

'I'm not denying anything. But as a priest he would have been excommunicated…'

Harry was incredulous. Where did this come from? He wanted to stand up and ask them where they got their ideas and what the hell they were talking about. But he didn't. He just sat there in a chair in the middle of a large office, trying to keep his composure and go along with them.

Two desks were at right angles in front of him. Roscani was behind one – a framed photograph of his wife and three teenage boys next to a computer whose screen was a mass of brightly colored icons. An attractive woman with long red hair sat at the other, like a court stenographer, entering the text of what they said into another computer. The sound of the keys as she typed made a dull staccato against the noisy grind of an aging air conditioner under the lone window, where Pio stood, leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest, expressionless.

Roscani lit a cigarette. 'Tell me about Miguel Valera.'

'I don't know a Miguel Valera.'

'He was a close friend of your brother.'

'I'm not familiar with my brother's friends.'

'He never spoke of Miguel Valera.' Roscani made a note on the pad next to him.

'Not to me.'

'Are you certain?'

'Detective, my brother and I were not close… We hadn't spoken for a long time…'

Roscani stared a moment, then turned to his computer and punched something up on the screen. He waited for the information to come up, then turned back.

'Your telephone number is 310-555-1719.'

'Yes…' Harry's defensive antenna suddenly went up. His home number was unlisted. They could get it, he knew. But why?

'Your brother called you last Friday at four-sixteen in the morning Rome time.'

That was it. They had a record of Danny's calls.

'Yes, he did. But I wasn't home. He left word on my answering machine.'

'Word. You mean a message?'

'Yes.'

'What did he say?'

Harry folded one leg over the other, then counted to five and looked at Roscani. 'That's what I wanted to talk to you about in the first place.'

Roscani said nothing. Just waited for Harry to continue.

'He was frightened. He said he didn't know what to do. Or what would happen next.'

'What did he mean by happen next?'

'I don't know. He didn't say.'

'What else did he say?'

'He apologized for calling the way he did. And said he would try and call back.'

'Did he?'

'No.'

'What was he frightened of?'

'I don't know. Whatever it was, it was enough to make him call me after eight years.'

'You had not spoken in eight years?'

Harry nodded.

Roscani and Pio exchanged glances.

'When was the last time you saw him?'

'Our mother's funeral. Two years before that.'

'You had not spoken with your brother in all that time. And then he calls you, and very shortly afterward he is dead.'

'Yes…'

'Was there a particular reason you and your brother were at odds?'

'One particular incident? No. Some things just build up over time.'

'Why were you the one he chose to call now?'

'He said… there was no one else he could talk to…'

Once again Roscani and Pio exchanged glances.

'We would like to hear the message on your machine.'

'I erased it.'

'Why?'

'Because the tape was full. It wouldn't have recorded anything else.'

'Then there is no proof there was a message. Or that you or someone in your home did not actually speak with him.'

Abruptly Harry sat forward. 'What are you insinuating?'

'That perhaps you are not telling the truth.'

Harry had to work to hold down his anger. 'First of all, no one was in my house when the call came. Secondly, when it came in, I was at Warner Brothers studios in Burbank, California, talking about a movie contract for a writer-director I represent and about the opening of his new film. For your information, it just came out this past weekend.'

'What is the name of this film?'

'Dog on the Moon,' Harry said flatly.

Roscani stared for a moment, then scratched his head and made a note on the pad in front of him.

'And the name of this writer-director,' he said without looking up.

'Jesus Arroyo.'

Now Roscani did look up.

'A Spaniard.'

'Hispanic-American. A Mexican to you. Born and grown up in East L.A. ' Harry was getting angry. They were pressing him without telling him anything. Acting as if they thought not only Danny but also he were guilty of something.

Roscani stubbed his cigarette into an ashtray in front of him. 'Why did your brother murder Cardinal Parma?'

'What-?' Harry was stunned, taken completely off guard.

'Why did your brother kill Rosario Parma, the cardinal vicar of Rome?'

'That's absurd!' Harry looked at Pio. Nothing showed. He was the same as he'd been before, arms still folded over his chest, leaning against the wall by the window.

Roscani picked up another cigarette and held it. 'Before Father Daniel joined the Church he was a member of the United States Marine Corps.'

'Yes.' Harry was still reeling, trying to grasp the magnitude of their accusations. Clear thinking was impossible.

'He trained with an elite unit. He was a highly decorated marksman.'

'There are thousands of highly decorated marksmen. He was a priest, for God's sake!'

'A priest with the skill to put a tight three-shot pattern into a man's chest at two hundred yards.' Roscani stared at him. 'Your brother was an excellent shot. He won competitions. We have his records, Mr Addison.'

'That doesn't make him a murderer.'

'I'll ask you again about Miguel Valera.'

'I said I never heard of him.'

'I think you have…'

'No, never. Not until you brought his name up.'

The stenographer's fingers were running steadily over the keyboard, taking it all down; what Roscani said, what he said, everything.

'Then I will tell you – Miguel Valera was a Spanish Communist from Madrid. He rented an apartment across the Piazza San Giovanni two weeks before the shooting. It was from that apartment the shots were fired that killed Cardinal Parma. Valera was still there when we arrived. Hanging from a pipe in the bathroom, a belt around his neck…' Roscani tapped the cigarette's filter end on the desk, compacting the tobacco. 'Do you know what a Sako TRG 21 is, Mr Addison?'

'No.'

'It's a Finnish-made sniper rifle. The weapon used to kill Cardinal Parma. It was found wrapped in a towel behind the couch in the same apartment. Valera 's fingerprints were on it.'

'Just his…?'

'Yes.'

Harry sat back, hands crossed in front of his chin, his eyes on Roscani. 'Then how can you accuse my brother of the murder?'

'Someone else was in the apartment, Mr Addison. Someone who wore gloves. Who tried to make us think Valera acted alone.' Roscani slowly put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it, the match still alive in his hand. 'What is the price of a Sako TRG 21?'

'I have no idea.'

'About four thousand U.S. dollars, Mr Addison.' Roscani twisted the burning match between his thumb and forefinger, putting it out, then dropped it in the ashtray.

'The apartment had been rented at nearly five hundred U.S. dollars a week. Valera paid for it himself in cash… Miguel Valera was a lifelong Communist. A stonemason who worked little. He had a wife and five children he could barely afford to feed and clothe.'